Choking of Laughter
by DreamOrNightmare
Summary: With every passing day, Harley was firsthand to observe the Joker's health deteriorate. As she struggles with the possibility of his death, she becomes aware of a new possibility he's given her. JxHQ oneshot. Dedicated to Duchess of Decorum! Blargh. Don't really like it.


**A/N:** Hello! I hope you enjoy this. I really did put a lot effort and heart into this. Personally, I really do hate that Joker died in the video game so here's my intake of how Harley's coping with before and after his death.

This one's for _Duchess of Decorum_ for being so flippin' awesome and sweet! :D

I also wanna give a lil' mention of _TitansGirl1234_, who writes really awesome JxHQ fics that inspired me to right this one. (:

Enjoy!

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**Choking of Laughter**

Making her way through the Steel Mill, Harley inhaled a shaky breath.

Every muscle in her petite body was exhausted and worn out; all her exuberant energy drained from hours of attempting to educate Joker's thickheaded rookies how things worked in the dying city. The boys were becoming more aggressive towards her, contrasting to the spineless wimps she took under her wing days ago, that was a significant improvement. The high-heeled boots she donned made her feet ache with every halfhearted step she labored, and the blackening bruise she received on her thigh didn't make her feel any better. Not only were the boys steeling up, but they were also gaining an attitude, which was strictly unacceptable. She knew Joker would most likely scold her later for allowing his thugs to get so reckless without any _discipline_ to _correct_ their behavior, but sometimes it was just too much weight for her to carry alone.

Ever since the Joker was categorized as gravely ill, she was granted with a list of new responsibilities as his second-in-command. Every morning before the sun rose, she had to get up unreasonably early to round up the recent recruits and toughen them up till they were decent enough to suit the Joker's particular taste—which was very stressing for her since he was very choosy when it came to picking out his goons. Afterwards, she often had to patrol Arkham with the boys to confirm the Joker's territory was secure from unwanted Penguin and Two-Face thugs. Then when she came home—if the Joker permitted her so—she frequently had to boss around his dim-witted goons or else they'll just stand there like buffoons. Whenever she did have some free time, she was filled with guilt whenever she crossed eyes with the Joker. To behold his ill complexion with her own eyes it often persuaded her to kidnap doctors in a desperate struggle to obtain a cure to heal the Joker to his prior self.

_Her Joker,_ the Joker who laughed carelessly without the restriction of congested lungs. The cackles and giggles she grew tender of hearing as their harmonious rang reverberated off the halls and walls and into her ears, now repressed and censored by wheezy, raucous coughs that pierced a thorn in her heart each time she perceived the boisterous, hoarse sound scrape against his vocal cords as he forcefully endeavored to masquerade his disease with his usual colorful personality. But his fading appearance left a permanent reminder engraved in her mind that soon he will expire.

Her boots making a sharp _click_ as she strutted, her severe blue eyes caught the dark orbs of a pair of inmates socializing amongst themselves as if they had nothing to do when she specifically recalled instructing them orders to watch for the Bat. Immediately, her eyes tightened with hostility within its oceanic blue depths.

Halting her light gait right in front of the goons, she placed her hands on her hips angrily. "Whaddaya guys doin' just lying around here?" She looked at both of the henchmen with narrowed accusing eyes, a firm sneer demonizing her crimson glossed lips.

The men shrank before her in dread of the Joker's wrath if he discovered they violated his orders. "H-Harley, we, uh—"The scraggiest thug of the duo began stupidly.

"Yapping your mouths away when I told ya to keep an eye out for B-man? You better get to it if you don't want Mistah J learning about the lazy asses he has as useless goons! Or maybe I should just tell 'em right now, hmm?" She hissed through a taut jaw, her baby blue eyes glaring holes in the grimy clown masks the thugs inherited from the Joker.

"That's unnecessary, Harley!" The fat one finally piped up, lowering his head apologetically. "We'll go look for Bat and make sure _your_ Joker is safe from harm's way!" He continued blabbering; obviously kissing up to the boss.

With a curt nod of her head, she imitated a smile—her real smiles where put aside for the Joker's eyes only—relishing in the sudden panicked demeanor the two men exhibited when Joker's name was mentioned. Secretly, she was delighted that the inmates cowered like defenseless infants when the Joker's name was cited upon her lips. That only proved his illness didn't ruin his reputation. He was still the same homicidal lunatic all the kiddies in Gotham hid under their covers in fright of finding the scary clown they fantasized in their frail nightmares pop up in front of them with a horrifically stunning smile sending them crying back to their mommies. She wagged her blonde pigtails in repulsion, the thought of a mother upsetting her mind. _Who needs mommies, when I have daddy? _

"Well, boys, get outta here and find that annoying Bat-brain before he hurts poor Mistah J… _again_!" She screeched heatedly at the top of her lungs, her gloved hands clenched tightly by her sides.

The henchmen bobbled their heads frantically in effort to please the fuming, hysterical blonde, finally moving their useless limbs to their made purpose.

"Hmph!" She huffed, her head held high as she pranced off, striving to ignore the tiring throb at the soles of her small feet.

Her black and red boots _snapped_ together as their pointed edge clashed with the filthy floorboards beneath her. As she neared the Joker's office, she was hit with an abrupt feeling of apprehensiveness in the pit of her stomach causing her footing to falter when her wide eyes traced the outline of a gangly man sitting in a wheelchair.

Hunched over, the lean figure seemed to be occupied with mute, naïve chortles as he steered his wheelchair in circles for his own amusement. The healthy, vivid shine of his emerald-dyed locks was beginning to thin out into flaky patches of unkempt, blenched mass. The chalky, pure surface of his flesh was leisurely distorting into an unsettling canvas of acne as sore blotches of drying and peeling skin was starting to eat away at the lively beauty he once possessed. His illness was visually and physically taking a toll on him. The very fabric of his purple suit was diminishing, losing all its colorfulness, raggedly grimacing into a bland portrait of black and white. The soft indication that not only was his body dying, but every essence he influenced was slowly decaying alongside him.

A raspy chuckle awakened her from her tormented thoughts. The chuckle that slipped through his cracked lips was barely audible enough for her to overhear that he hasn't completely lost himself, although his rotting appearance revolted. But his chuckle was unnatural and forced by the way his chest rapidly rose and fell, desperately in need of oxygen from his brief attempt of renewal. Her body instinctively became rigid and jittery with the motivation to tend to him, but then she remembered how he rebuked her for smothering him like a baby and recoiled her hand.

Hanging her head in grief, her glazed, blue eyes were flooded with guilt and inner turmoil, consuming her until she had nothing else, but these overwhelming emotions that wished—no, begged—that he would, somehow, be revived back to his former self, so she could finally breathe again. She took a reluctant step forward, exposing herself from the security of the shadows, her rebelliously bleached pigtails bouncing behind her as she softly treaded towards the sick clown.

"Mistah J?" she uttered uncertainly.

Craning his head in an awkward angle, a lazy grin claimed his lips. "Harley," his vacant emerald irises skimmed down her body momentarily before he turned away. "Have you ever wondered how many Batmans does it take to change a light bulb?"

Her eyes watched him carefully. "Uh… not really."

Nervously fidgeting with her collar that hugged her neck as snugly as a noose, her blue irises quietly analyzed him. There was something wrong with this picture, but she couldn't quite put a finger on it.

His quirky eyebrows crinkled. "I've been thinking about it lately for the past few weeks—no, months…. or was it years ago?" he hesitated for moment, biting the inside of his cheek, "No. It was months ago."

Tossing him a fretted look, her eyes slumped to the moldering floor. Witnessing him like this, in this heartrending state with miserable, green eyes was wrenching to her brittle sanity. The lies, the lyrics he chanted to delude her, mingled together effortlessly in the heavy tension between them. The air was dense and humid, all the deceptions and fabrications cunningly camouflaged with the lingering scent of air freshener she snatched from the asylum months ago. The uncomfortable atmosphere around her was a burden to her lungs; the sickly tart taste of the air irritated her windpipe every time she inhaled for breath. She couldn't stomach this tension. All she wanted to do was sit by his side and worship him with admirations and approvals until he regained his poise to walk on stable legs.

Years before, she never thought she'll feel these strong emotions for any man. _It was ridiculous, _she often told herself. To feel so devoted to him, she frequently criticized herself for that. When she was alone, she often questioned herself—with what was left of her rationality—if her allegiance to him was_ immoral_ and _wrong_, then her suppressed insecurities would start to bleed through the safe padding of her mind.

Every time he bled, she experienced the same tender sting of the knife's serrated fringe poke at her brain whenever she attempted to think clearly, declaring her deranged by unknowing onlookers. Every time she observed his brutally battered body, handiwork of the Dork Knight himself, she endured a prick of pity stab at the frail strings of her heart—until they eventually detached and she was sobbing the remaining bits over the Joker's unconscious frame. Every time his gags failed, she underwent the same disappoint he felt, and often tried to reassure his dissolving confidence—which regularly led to her own failure when he overlooked her. Yet, despite all her sacrifices, her love for him was one-sided. He never did once care enough to return her affections, unless he was rewarded with something in return. Although she began to realize this, she continued to idolize him and acknowledged the painful truth while giving the façade that she was oblivious to his sincere intentions of her. Besides, he always tolerated her. That was enough for her.

"I knew the answer, of course, lil' bats like the dark. But what I wondered was… why? Why does he like the dark? There's no reason why _not_ to turn on the lights!" He ranted aimlessly, propping his chin in his hands.

Unwillingly hauling her eyes to face him, she became aware of how his condition deteriorating. Every breath he drew in was wrestled for, his lungs on the verge of succumbing to the prodigious venom governing his blood. How _selfish_ could she be? This whole time she was only thinking of herself! Perhaps if she wasn't so self-regarding, he wouldn't be in this position. She peered at him closer. If possible, it even seemed that he was becoming more… _scrawnier. _Guilt plagued her. It was one of the simplest of duties to feed him—and she failed at that too!

She forced herself to smile. "Mistah J, you shouldn't be thinkin' about Bat-brain. You should be gettin' some rest, sweetie."

With a pensive expression scrawled on the decomposing features of his face, he didn't appear to be listening to her anymore. His green irises were unfocused, distracted with the constant, annoying beeping of his life support.

He kept his eyes on his noisy respirator machine as he spoke, much to her relief. "Rest? In a time like this? Harley, are you _crazy? _There's no time for sleepy time!" His emerald eyes grew muddled, "There's hardly any time."

"M-Mistah J…." Harley stammered affectionately.

A hoarse cough grated from the Joker's throat, disrupting the eerie stillness. Almost instantly, her head snapped upwards—a bodily movement so quick he even took note of it—her worried eyes darted across every angle of his undernourished body, trying to locate the cause of his coughing fit so that she could _kill_ the source that was making him hurt. _If only I had the cure. If only I had the cure. If only I had the cure, _she kept repeating these verses in her head, mentally beating herself for something she couldn't fix.

"Harley, why the hell are you… crying?" He intruded her trail of thought curtly.

Hoisting himself off from his wheelchair, his labored strides filled the gap between them. Reaching out a slender, gloved hand, he brushed away a tear that was tarnishing its way down her ivory coated cheek, triggering a faint gasp from her. She self-consciously raised her hands to her face, touching the recognizable warm liquid cascading down the borders of her eyes. Her fingers began to tremble against the soft skin of her jawline. She hadn't realized she was crying until he grew attentive of it. How humiliating it was for her. She must have looked hideous in her cake face of running and smearing makeup; her jaw grew taut in discomfort. She never wanted her Joker to see her like this, especially in these dire conditions. What could he be thinking of her now? Did he think she was _ugly_ now that he seen who she really was behind her mask of greasepaint? All her apprehensive thoughts made her all the more self-conscious. When he began to lean closer, his beady green orbs squinting for an accurate analysis of her fine face structure, she was sent _off her rocker._ Immediately, she retreated away from his hand and buried her face in her hands. Detecting the cold hint of rejection, the Joker halted his advances and withdrew his hand. He proceeded to pace around the encased room while pondering why he didn't get rid of her years ago; when the obvious reason emerged from his psychotically jumbled mind. He needed her—now more than ever since he infected with such a restraining disease. Though, as much as he favored to refuse it, he knew very well that it was true.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Harl. You haven't been acting like yourself lately," he jeered. However, he knew _exactly_ why she was behaving the way she was, he just enjoyed toying with her more.

Her eyes were glued to the floor in shame for mistreating him. "Puddin'," he winced at hearing the pet name he despised so much, "I'm sorry. It's j-just….. I don't know what I'll do if y-you… _died,"_ she squeaked the last phrase as if it was a word he forbidden her to say.

Almost instantly, his eyes flickered from thoughtful to infuriated. "Harley! Have a lil' faith in me, will ya? I bet ol' Batty-boy is already sniffing out Freeze to save me," he squawked out the last sentence with so much admiration, Harley couldn't help it if she felt a tad jealous.

"I don't know, Boss," she intruded. "Red said—"

"The plant?" he deadpanned, tilting his head with an unhappy scowl scribbled on his parched lips. "Don't tell me that's where you're getting all your _silly_ philosophies from?"

Timidly, she kept her mouth shut. It was no use anyway, trying to ram her beliefs and viewpoints down his throat. She knew every word she said went by ignored and discounted through his thoughts. If she was fortunate, he'd_ pretend_ that he was listening and make her feel like her opinions actually mattered, but those were scarce occasions. While he continued to ramble on about how Pammy was a bad influence on her; her gentle eyes scanned his body anxiously, determined to unravel if he was decent or if he was simply speaking out of a feverish tongue, taking in all his sickly disfigured aspects that made her wish she hadn't. She sensed the unwelcoming moisture began to clutter at the rims of her irises once more. All the anxiety and guilt that she directed to herself over the past nerve-racking months, collecting in her tears as they commenced to flow freely down her cheeks. It was foolish for her to cry like a small girl. _Very immature,_ he often hollered to her when she broke down in front of him. After all these years of Joker lecturing her what was right and what was wrong, she expected she'd learn a thing or two about his high principles of never being a whiny bitch. Being a temporary leader to the goons, if any of those buffoons caught her _whimpering like a school girl,_ that would be her immediate downfall of respect—as if they actually regarded her _now._ Why was she crying anyways? Even she didn't know.

His narrow shoulders slackened. "Harl, will you can it already?" He warned lightly, right when he was interrupted by another outburst of raw coughing. His ashy, gloved hands covered his mouth as he struggled to catch his breath.

That's when it struck her. She wasn't crying out of her own selfish purposes. She was crying for _him. _How thick could she be _not_ to realize this sooner? It took no rocket scientist—or this circumstance, a witty psychiatrist—to see the Joker was arrogant and haughty. Too prideful to veil any flaws, too egotistic to allow any weakness surpass him—if he ever degraded himself as low as to crumple and cry—then the whole world would laugh _at _him. Every, single, meaningless, poor excuse of human life would be laughing at her _sweet innocent angel._ That's why she stole the role and cried for him, so he wouldn't have go through the humiliation Batman inflicted on him on daily basis—only a million times worse. Just imagining that dumb Bat laughing at her Joker made her seethe in her hatred for that one specific rodent with wings. The Bat was like a pesky fly, no matter how much you swatted at it, it always came back. And it annoyed the hell out of her. _Why can't he ever stay dead for once?_

A clear bead of liquid slid off her face and plummeted to the soiled floorboards, unnoticeably purifying them of their filth where her tear had landed.

Nevertheless, she had to admit, she was _partially_ lying—she wasn't crying _just_ because of the Joker's enormous pride that imprisoned him. Ever since she was informed of his exacerbating illness, she mourned over the possibility that he_ might_ not triumph over this fight this time. The back of her mind shuddered with worry over that tiny prospect. _The likelihood of him dying,_ she tried to discard that negative outlook. But with the inmates mumbling behind her back and the villains gossiping about his conclusion, it always found a way to leak back into her mind's tangled thoughts.

"Mistah J, I'm scared. Seeing you like this…." her voice began to shake as she desperately tried to wipe away her tears spilling from her frowning eyes. _"I don't ya to die, Puddin'."_ Her clear, clipped words twisted into muffled blubbers that made little sense to the Joker.

His eyes studied her. For a second, he frowned before a jaunty grin exaggerated the high cheekbones on his face. "You feel sorry for me, my dear?" he leered.

With round, teary eyes, she nodded naïvely.

Beaming, he beckoned her to come closer, to which Harley obeyed eagerly, bending her neck forward in curiosity.

"Oh, Harley, that's _really_ sweet of you." Grinning slyly, he placed a hand gently on her flat abdomen, prompting a delighted squeal from her. His gloved hand lingered there for a moment—ignorant of the small speck of existence developing right underneath his hand—before trailing his fingers along the seam of her corset. His soft strokes and touches ended when she could no longer suppress her moan of desperation with a tight smile. Yet his hand remained on her heaving chest, feeling the rapid rhythm of her heart beneath his fingers only strengthened his homicidal longing to wring her neck.

"_But…" _Identifying the abrupt threating edge in his voice, she stumbled a few steps back. But it was too late. His hands were already at her throat.

"I don't_ want_ your sympathy, you dim-witted floozy!" He spat in her face as he shook her so furiously her eyes crossed. She attempted to drench him with apologies, but with the knotted, stern hold he had on her neck, all she could croak out were unintelligible gurgles and red. _Lots of red. _

The circulation of the blood flooding through her blue veins was obstructed by the tightening pressure enclosing her throat, crushing her trachea. Despite being unable to breath, she didn't struggle against him. She didn't fight him. She simply stood there, weakly gripping the purple lapels of his suit as he continued to strangled her—that was until her knees creased and he was dangling her by the neck, still shaking her vigorously. The overly familiar pain of suffocation was beginning to seep into every nerve, every muscle rendering her movements futile and lethargic. She was idly becoming his punch-bag all over again. Well—as long as she was _his _punch-bag. She didn't mind.

When—suddenly—the pain stopped.

Once she recuperated her hearing and sight, her slightly blurred vision made out the Joker's gaunt shape shuddering violently in an uncontrollable outburst of hoarse coughing. Pale eyes widening, she watched in horror as blood dribbled down his cracked lips, soon decorating the floor with red speckles. When his inflamed eyes greeted hers, he endeavored to stifle his coughing so he could continue to bend her _tempting, supple_ neck into an upside down "u." That would be humorous pun to show Bats.

Gingerly, she stroked his face with a free hand. "Puddin'," she mumbled delicately like a mother would soothe a crying child.

Glowering, he swatted her hand away. She knew better than to touch him without his consent.

"If it makes ya feel any better… I have a lil' something to show you." He groaned, plucking lint off his purple tux in a careless manner.

Massaging her aching neck, her glassy eyes were trained on him in intense scrutiny, her blonde brows puckering every time he exhibited obvious symptoms of illness. A soft, riffling noise made her head tilt in attentiveness. Her eyes were drawn down to his gloved hands where it seemed he was digging in his pockets, searching for something. A curious look crossed her face. She was about to ask what he was looking for, but he then wagged a finger and ordered her to look away. Obedient, she swiveled her body around and kept quiet, trying her best to keep her eyes closed.

"Okay, Harl, you can open your eyes now and turn around—oh and try not to scream, will ya? I already have a splitting head ache," he grumbled, rubbing his temples.

When she opened her eyes, she was caught in awe. Lying courteously on his hand was a golden _ring _enclosed in a green box, parceled with a purple ribbon on top.

"Would you marry me…. _Puddin'?"_

Her blue eyes began to water once more. But this time, it was happiness beckoning her tears. _Why would Puddin' wanna marry someone as hopeless as me? _The negative thought teased the back of her mind. Though it was her life's dream to marry her true love, she always believed she was unworthy of his affections. Ivy always rebelled against her for thinking that way, preaching about how all men are insignificant and useless, but Red just didn't understand. There was an aspect to Joker no one else saw. A much softer, compassionate side that only she perceived. Of course, he fed the portions to her in small morsels at a time, but it was still there. Like how he happily welcomes her back home after spending a month at Red's or how angry he gets when he learns one of his goons were laying hands on her.

It took moment for her to realize that he was waiting for an answer. "Oh, Mistah—"he placed a thin finger on her lips, shushing her.

"Hold that thought, Punkin."

He fiddled with his trousers' pockets till he found his treasured pistol.

Immediately, Harley's lips stiffened under his index finger, expecting his worst. He aimed the pistol in her direction, absentmindedly sticking his blue tongue out of the corner of his mouth for accuracy. When he clicked the trigger, her knees almost gave out on her. The bullet barely grazed the pale skin of her shoulder. She blew out a heavy exhale when she heard the beeping noise of his respirator machine come to an abrupt end with boisterous crash of a custom crafted bullet smashing into the heart of the machine.

He drew his pistol back inside his purple trousers.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your exciting speech, dear. But that constant beeping was driving me _mad,_" he recited, baring his yellowing teeth at her in charming sneer that captivated her. "Now what was that, _darling?_"

The nearby henchmen that surveyed the clown pair, all twisting their facial expressions in disgust while muttering profanities of Harley's absurdity, knew too well that the Joker was only manipulating her to squeeze something out of her.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" Harley sang, almost bouncing in her platform heels as if she were a child waiting eagerly for a prized toy.

She lunged for the golden ring, still gloating in his clothed, left hand, when he violently halted her by grabbing her face, shoving her away as if she were a ragdoll and not a fragile human. He croaked out loud, humorless chuckles, trying to endeavor the physical strain that came along with it. "Whoa, steady girl!" He laughed, slightly tugging on one of her pigtails. "Not yet, silly girl. When I get rid of Batman perhaps I'll consider—"

"That's wha'cha said last time," she whined, her small hands reaching for the purple lapels of his suit.

"There was a _last time_?" He mumbled from the corner of his mouth in a whisper.

He slumped an arm over her shoulders for support, his body growing weary of standing. "C'mon, Har-Har, when all _this_ is over—when I have the cure and when Bats is rolling in his grave—then we'll tie the knot."

She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes, her hands greedily pulling him closer. "Promise, Puddin'?"

An unreadable emotion crossed his emerald eyes; an unknown emotion that overcame the protective barrier of his sadistic thoughts. Even Harley, who was smitten with him for more than a decade, was puzzled. Throughout the years of being labeled the Joker's girlfriend, she grew accustomed to his rowdy mood swings and learned to pick up the hints he left her with his expressive facial features. But this was something new. He parted his thin lips to respond—right when one of the goons rushed through the doors.

The inmate's greasepaint was running from all the sweat of trying to fight off Penguin's gang. "Hey Boss, Jonny wanted to know if—"

"Slick, my boy, hasn't your mommy ever told to knock before you barge in like a complete idiot? We could have been naked for all you know," he giggled deviously, pushing Harley aside.

The goon scratched the back of his bald head awkwardly. "Sir, my name's Rick…."

_~The aftermath~_

His armor-encased boots made a harsh crunch each time his heel came into contact with the gravel of the unacquainted pavement. His long-legged strides were unusually slogged and measured, as if each footstep was difficult to accomplish under the sturdy weight of the startled stares he received from the audience before him. The black fleece of his cape was torn and tattered, flowing freely behind his prominent shoulders, his bat attire mirroring its frayed condition. His thin lips were pulled to a frown, his dark eyes unreadable by the shelter of his cowl. An uncomfortable gust of wind blew past him as he strained to step into the light, and out of the refuge of the poorly lit theatre where his life of vengeance began.

All the inmates that cheered their leader's name, expecting him to burst through the doors and waltz out with a trademark smile of triumph, grew silent when realization struck them hard on the face, but not because of the victor that walked, barely unscathed, out of the old cinema—but the limp form gathered in his heavily-muscled arms.

"No…"

When the scenery registered in Harley Quinn's neurotic mind, a loud gasp escaped from her gaping mouth, scratching against her sore throat. With shock written on the soft details of her face, her eyes began to sting as she eyeballed Batman in disbelief, his emotionless eyes staring straight ahead as he intervened through the mob of thugs, all humbly moving out of his way with bowed heads. Doom consumed her. An unwelcoming feeling of abandonment and grief swallowed her heart down her stomach. Like a discarded puppet without its master, she collapsed to her knees. Batman didn't acknowledge her nor did he offer her an apologetic glance, he was too absorbed in his own world to perceive the cruel reality in front of him. Unbeknownst to her, his own little world was as bleakly grim as hers by _his _departure.

The lifeless corpse, laid peacefully across his arms, were the remnants of the Joker. His body was uncharacteristically unresponsive against Batman's brawny arms that caressed his lean frame securely. The only sign of movement was how his head slightly bobbled in the breeze with every unwilling stride Batman took. Staring at the dirty cement, her black nails biting at the stony earth, she wondered if this was real or if this was just _another_ crazy dream she was hallucinating. She felt as if she was drowning in her own disarray that she had composed, her throat tightening in uneasiness. Desperate and frantic, she refused to swallow the ugly truth before her own, frenzied eyes. But when she noticed the broad grin resting on his peeling, thin lips, the red lips she adored kissing in the evenings when she caught him in a good mood, she knew the man in Batman's arms was no decoy this time. Bitter moisture blurred her vision, eventually collecting in the rims of her eyes, pouring like rivers down her cheeks.

Her beautifully twisted world was dissolving, leaving only the ugly pricks of reality.

_How could this happen? _She interrogated herself, her brows knitting together in deep frustration. She made sure everything went according to _plan, _that everything curbed to Joker's favor. Everything was going so perfect; she even had the antidote at arm's length. With a ghost of a smile threatening to crack, she recalled how pleased he was with her, how he praised her for the good effort, dubbing her his _minx_—right when one of Batman's whores snatched it away from her fingertips. Talia couldn't spike a punch even if her _beloved_'s life depended on it. _It wasn't fair._ She worked so hard to retrieve the cure, while Bats and Freeze were quarreling, only to be stolen from her hands by Talia. That's when she recognized her error. Talia took the antidote, and she had _allowed_ it to happen. It was all her fault. If that hadn't happened, everything would gone smoothly, and the Joker would still be laughing—and most importantly, _alive_. Maybe if she took on Talia more seriously, rather than throwing wisecracks every time she gave Talia a boot to the face, then maybe Joker would still be breathing.

Through bloodshot eyes, she painfully watched as Batman carried him away, further separating her from the man she loved dearly.

If she reached out, the attempt would be futile. If she refused it, she would forever live in lie. She couldn't do nothing, but succumb to the overwhelming pain of losing a loved one. Through misty sight, she glared at the concrete, her bare shoulders beginning to shake in exhaustion. A dewdrop of liquid fell on the cold cement, she watched unfeelingly as more liquid dripped from her red eyes, sprinkling the stone ground with droplets of her bereavement. Soft whimpers raked from her throat, gradually contorting into a wild wail with every passing second she recalled the Joker. She was loss without him, her independency stripped from her the day he hired her off as hench-staff.

Rather sudden, she felt the urge to _vomit._ The acids from her knotted stomach churning and stirring up her throat's passage way. Relucant, she swallowed it back. She laid a hand across her stomach when she felt slight movement come from inside her.

Her blue, tearful eyes bulged in realization.

She wasn't completely alone. He gave her a _special __present _before he left.

* * *

The whole marriage theme was loosely based off "The Batman Adventures" comic books, especially when he calls her "Puddin'." Teehee. :3 I haven't read those comics in a long time, but there's this volume where Joker *almost* marries Harley and all this crazy shizz happens.

So did ya like it? Please click on the review icon and tell me what'cha think, thanks for reading! ^_^

**Update: (6/6/12) **I just wanted to give a BIG thank you to all those who reviewed, favorited, alerted, etc. THANKS GUYS! Wow, I never thought this piece of poop would gain so many reviews. :'D

I also felt like defining the old fashion terms I used (IN MY OWN WORDS... whooo!). :P

Floozy- Basicially, an old slang term for whore, slut.

Goon (I bet most of you already know what that means, but I'm still gonna define it. 8D)- The same meaning as thug, gangster, hoodlum.

Noose (btw, it's not slang, but I think it's rarely used.)- A loop at the end of a rope, tied with a knot so that it can be tightened and slackened, and used for trapping animals or hanging people. -From Encarta Dictionary

That's pretty much it. I didn't feel like a old geezer when I was writing this so that sums up for the lack of old fashion slang terms. I apologize if you dig old fashion slang. I do too. o3o

**Disclaimer:** Unforunately, I do not own Mistah J or Harley, or any of the Batman characters for that matter. Maybe in the future... no, not even then.


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